


how i love thy company

by girodelles_waifu



Series: Rose and Blade (what say you to my suit) [5]
Category: Romeo & Juliet - Takarazuka Revue, Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic, Takarazuka Revue Musicals
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, M/M, also a little bit of disaster because this is verona, paris is being the exact level of dramatic that the situation calls for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:36:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29974017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girodelles_waifu/pseuds/girodelles_waifu
Summary: Romeo and Juliet are married. Mercutio is no longer hiding his relationship with Benvolio. Paris is with Tybalt. Sunday luncheon in the Prince’s palace goes as well as could be expected.
Relationships: Juliet Capulet/Romeo Montague, Mercutio/Benvolio Montague, Paris/Tybalt (Romeo and Juliet)
Series: Rose and Blade (what say you to my suit) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591387
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	how i love thy company

Over the several weeks since Romeo and Juliet's marriage, things in the expanded Escalus household are almost beginning to approach normal.

For Verona, anyway.

The Prince, determined to ensure that they all remain friends, insists that everyone under his roof take luncheon together every Sunday. This is somewhat awkward, but with enough wine Paris can get through anything. Romeo and Juliet have enough of a softening effect that his uncle is reluctant to lecture, and even Mercutio's teasing barbs at Paris are less vicious in front of them.

The real trouble starts when there are other guests.

Paris remembers, for the first few weeks, to warn Tybalt away from staying over on Saturday night. Eventually, however, he loses track of the days.

He and Tybalt are enjoying a relaxing morning together playing Mulino; Tybalt tunes a new lute between turns, and Paris stitches white lace and red velvet onto a hairpin. At the loud knock, Paris jumps, stabbing the needle into his thumb.

“Damn it!” Paris yelps, setting the hairpin down and wincing as he looks at the spot of red.

The knocking grows more insistent.

Tybalt grabs his hand as Paris rises, holding his wrist firmly and kissing the blood away before releasing him to walk to the door. Paris laughs and blows him a kiss in return as he unlocks the latch.

“Mercutio, this is not...oh dear.”

The moment he sees the servant there, he remembers. But it’s too late now.

"Oh god," Paris says as he shuts the door. "Oh god, it's Sunday."

"...Yes?"

Tybalt stares at him with an expression of amused bewilderment. No doubt he thinks this is just another of Paris' eccentricities—if only!

"God, it's too late...He'd notice if you left now.” Paris paces the room in distress. “I'm going to need the Last Rites after this...do you have a will, darling?”

“Last Rights? Will? What are you _on_ about?” Tybalt sets the lute down and gets up to grab Paris’ shoulders.

“We have to go to lunch!” Paris exclaims, pushing Tybalt’s hands away. “The world is ending.”

Tybalt stares at him for a long moment, tilting his head slowly to one side. “I’m sure it is.”

“Don’t mock my suffering.” Paris sighs and runs a hand through his hair, looking down at his clothes and then what Tybalt is wearing. “Do you have any other clothes here? Uncle is...particular.”

Tybalt shrugs as Paris flings starts flinging open wardrobes and chests, looking for the things of Tybalt’s that have been accumulating over the weeks they’ve been able to have an open romance. All of the clothes he finds were created at Lady Capulet’s request, and are far too gaudy to satisfy his uncle’s insistence for a ‘casual, tasteful luncheon’.

As if anything in this household could ever be either thing.

“Why does she make you wear these things?” Paris grumbles, holding up a leather jacket with a gilded hawk embroidered across the back, its wings spreading onto the sleeves.

“You asked me to wear that. I believe your exact words were—”

“Oh no, this is not the time—”

“Your exact words were ‘like the eagle swooping down on Ganymede’. Remember?”

Paris can remember very well indeed. “I am _trying_ to have a paroxysm of despair. Please be more helpful.”

Tybalt turns away for a moment, putting a hand over his mouth and taking several deep breaths. “You’re right, of course,” he says when he turns back. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“That’s better,” Paris says archly, pretending he doesn’t see the way Tybalt’s lips are fighting to curl into a laugh.

By the time he finds a red velvet coat that isn’t guaranteed to invite his uncle’s immediate disapproval, they’re already a quarter hour late to the luncheon.

“Ah. At last.”

Paris makes a quick bow as he and Tybalt sit down at the only remaining seats, immediately across from Benvolio and Mercutio. Mercutio puts his tongue out briefly, but Benvolio elbows him in the side before he can do anything more.

Romeo and Juliet are sitting across from the Prince; they all quickly discovered that this was an excellent strategy to keep him amiable. Though he never married, and rarely speaks of such personal matters, Paris is well aware that his uncle has always desired children. In private, he’s sometimes awkwardly affectionate towards Paris, but Romeo and Juliet are certainly more immediately rewarding and less complicated wards, though they are still a little frightened of the Prince.

The luncheon is better than Paris had expected. His uncle is in a good mood after making advantageous trade agreements with Padua, and doesn't say anything even when Juliet begins slipping some of her food to his prize greyhound under the table.

Benvolio valiantly does most of the talking, dredging up every anecdote from his medical apprenticeship that could possibly be interesting. Mercutio doesn’t always agree with this, as he makes several theatrical yawns.

“How is Isotta?” Juliet asks around a mouthful of pudding during a lull in the conversation.

“She’s...she’s fine,” Tybalt says quietly.

“Tybalt gives her better presents than he does me,” Paris interjects. “Should have seen the fur he bought for her.”

“Paris…” Tybalt murmurs into his cup of water as Juliet giggles.

"Wow, I haven't seen Tybalt so quiet since that time he stabbed Paris," Mercutio laughs as he pours another glass of wine.

Everything goes dead silent around the table, the only sound Benvolio's sharp breath inward.

"Ah," Mercutio says quietly into the stillness. "Fuck."

The Prince puts his bread down very slowly. "I must have misunderstood something. What was that?"

"I can exPLAIN," Paris begins, and everyone else starts shouting at once.

"It's not like he died—"

"He only stabbed me a little bit!"

"He was trying to stab me! If he's going to get in trouble for stabbing somebody it should be me!"

"Oh, like you weren't trying to stab anybody, Mercutio!"

"You've kept quiet about this for how long!?"

"Benvolio was just trying to help, please don't arrest him!"

"Romeo! Stop helping!"

"Paris, I swear to god, if you get my boyfriend hanged for saving your _fucking life_ —"

"Mercutio! Stop helping!"

In the commotion, none of them notice Juliet suddenly start heaving over her plate.

"Jesus Christ!" Romeo gasps.

Hearing Romeo swear shocks everyone else out of their argument. The Prince half-rises from his chair, but before he can move, Tybalt and Benvolio both run to Juliet’s side, Tybalt nearly throwing Romeo out of his chair in the process. “What’s wrong? Was the pudding too hot? Can you breathe? Do you need some water?”

Benvolio pounds Juliet on the back as she coughs, until her breathing slowly evens out. Romeo pushes past Tybalt and throws his arm around her neck to kiss her cheek.

Juliet catches Paris’ eye and winks across the table. “I’m fine, husband,” she says, patting Romeo’s hair gently.

 _Thank God for the Capulets,_ Paris thinks. _The only place in Verona to have more awkward family meals, I’m sure._

“I’m glad you’re alright, dear child,” the Prince says once they’re all back in their seats. “Now...what on earth were we talking about?”

“Absolutely nothing,” everyone choruses from around the table.

“...Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

**Author's Note:**

> Mulino is the Italian name for the game known as Nine Men's Morris in English.


End file.
